


Journeys End

by kazvl



Series: Fire and Ice [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:56:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2268789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazvl/pseuds/kazvl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journeys End

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry this part took so long. Many thanks to those who've taken the time to comment, or leave kudos; they've been wonderfully cheering.
> 
> The title is taken from a song in Shakespeare's 'Twelfth Night', which quotation Arthur Conan Doyle used in 'The Empty House' - though, taking off my slash hat, I've never understood why Holmes said it at that point.   
>  '...Journeys end in lovers' meeting -  
>  Every wise man's son doth know...'

　

　

AUGUST - SEPTEMBER 2011

His flight back from the States delayed by five hours, Mycroft was bone-tired by the time he stumbled inside Guardian House. The blanketing silence was a weighty, unnecessary reminder of what he had lost.

Hungry but lacking the energy to cook, he ate an apple. Even that was a too poignant reminder of Gregory, his eyes sparking, juice trickling over his bottom lip before it was recaptured with a swipe of his agile tongue.

An untypical sense of hopelessness sweeping over him, Mycroft showered and changed into a pair of pyjamas, only to pause when he found some of the buttons on the jacket were missing, remembering Gregory's unrepentant lust-filled urgency. Abandoning thoughts of sleep, he wandered aimlessly into the family room, which was still littered with reminders of Gregory. As he obviously wasn't going to sleep yet, he might just as well find himself some undemanding task with which to occupy himself.

Despite the hours of meticulous checking and double-checking, every member of his section, whether an initial suspect or not, had been cleared - which meant he still had no idea who the mole might be, let alone their purpose. Fortunately nothing had come of the leak about Oaktree, which was both a relief and puzzling; making the information public could have seriously compromised Britain's always rocky position with the EU.

His search for Moran had been equally unproductive, the man fading from view faster than politician's smiles once they were off camera. None of Moriarty's captured people had recognised Moran's picture. Though that wasn't surprising; Moriarty had run his organisation like a series of spy cells, with no one member knowing anyone but their own small group.

Because his concentration was under par after a difficult, thirty eight hour day, Mycroft ignored the reports awaiting his attention in favour of checking the backlog of footage of the area around Sherlock's grave. In the hope Moran would return there, he had ordered disguised CCTV camera's installed around the graveyard and along the surrounding country lanes and small villages.

Stubbornly refusing to allow himself the sleep he needed so desperately, it was almost five in the morning when he choked on a mouthful of long-cold tea and paused the footage to study the familiar figure crouched in the bushes. Sherlock was staring at an oblivious John Watson, who was standing in front of Sherlock's grave; John looked older, and as if he had forgotten how to smile. But that didn't excuse Sherlock's stupidity.

Mycroft fumbled for his burner phone and hit speed dial.

"What the fuck d'you think you're playing at, risking everything just so you can gawp at John like a lovesick schoolboy! It's pure luck I didn't allocate the task of checking the security footage to the office junior. What were you thinking? Well, of course you weren't."

"We can't all be like you." Even an optimist wouldn't have taken it for a compliment.

"More's the pity! Are you still in England?" Mycroft thought to add, because the recording was three days old. Time for Sherlock to get to Tibet, if he was so minded.

"Yes. Don't fuss. I'm well-hidden."

Sherlock sounded decidedly sulky. No change there then. "Really?" drawled Mycroft, in the tone he knew always irritated his brother. " _Do not_ put me to the inconvenience of coming to find you."

Sherlock's sniff of disdain did nothing to improve Mycroft's mood.

"You're endangering everything. We're so close to closing down the last strands of Moriarty's organisation. It could do untold harm if it was to become public knowledge that you're alive."

"Have you found Moran yet?"

"No. Have you?"

"No," conceded Sherlock sulkily. "But hamstrung as I am by being shut away from the action... My mind rebels at - "

"If Moran discovers you're alive while he's still at large it could be the death of the three people you tried to protect," Mycroft reminded him.

"What aren't you telling me?"

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. Subterfuge was supposed to be his speciality - not that one would know it from his recent lack-lustre performance. "Moran has been seen in the vicinity of Baker Street, and again outside the surgery in Barnes, where John was working as a locum. Mrs Hudson has been sent off on an extended holiday with her sister, and John is now working as a locum on the Welsh Borders."

"And Lestrade?"

"Is under twenty four hour surveillance. So far Moran hasn't gone near him."

"So you're not worried about them?"

"I'm always worried." Mycroft managed to make the truth sound like a lie. "While the press have restored your reputation - "

"Having first taken it away."

"There is that," conceded Mycroft. "It will take a little longer to ensure the authorities take the same view."

"You sound tired," noted Sherlock, making an accusation of the observation.

"Unfortunately the world failed to stop turning after you jumped. I've had a number of other matters demanding my attention. Will you return to Norway?"

"Great-Uncle Sigerson had me researching tartrazine," said Sherlock, perilously close to whining.

"What possible interest are coal-tar derivatives to you?"

"You may well ask. I'm bored."

It didn't take a genius to hear the unspoken 'And lonely'.

"I'm sure you must be but we're so close to succeeding. Give me just a few more weeks." Squinting with fatigue, Mycroft rubbed his face and winced at the rasp of stubble.

"You're sure John's safe?"

"He's under twenty four hour surveillance."

"That's no good, he'll spot them and - "

"With his consent." Mycroft saw no need to explain the difficulties which had been involved in gaining that agreement.

"I'll go back to Norway," sighed Sherlock. "If only so I can shave. This damn beard itches unbearably. You'll contact me as soon as I can come home?"

"Of course. Goodnight, brother mine - and thank you."

"Don't fuss. I won't do anything stupid."

Sherlock rang off before Mycroft could ask what his definition of stupid might be.

oOo

Lestrade was working up to twelve hours a day, helping to turn the derelict Victorian house into a shelter for those who needed it most. Physical exhaustion meant he was sleeping better and the work had the added bonus that, because he was learning new skills, it kept him too busy to think about Mycroft - much. During this time he'd had the satisfaction of steering a couple of kids into rehab., which made him feel as if he was doing something of worth again.

He hadn't appreciated how much he needed to feel that.

It went without saying that he still hadn't heard from the IPCC. He suspected they'd drag the inquiry out for as long as they could and then quietly offer him early retirement - if they didn't just recommend he be sacked. He was an embarrassment, and the Met. had plenty of expertise in cover-ups.

Once the house was finished he'd decide what to do. He'd begun to doubt his certainty that Mycroft had some grand plan and if Mycroft didn't want him there was no point staying in London. He had a decent amount of equity from the sale of his flat, maybe he'd travel. He'd spent all his adult life being responsible - and look where it had got him...

oOo

The day had gone better than Mycroft had expected, leaving his opposite number in Germany owing him a huge favour. Because there was no one to go home for, he returned to his office under the Diogenes Club and applied himself to some tedious but necessary paperwork.

"Sir, Hannah would like a word before you leave," said Balasha, from the partially open door.

"Oh, god, really?" groaned Mycroft, his attention remaining on the draft Statement of Intent he was amending - this P.M.'s habit of speaking off the cuff meant he couldn't be trusted with any announcement which actually mattered. He looked up to see Hannah fidgeting behind Balasha, whose glare was one of icy disapproval. He seemed to have been receiving a lot of those since Sherlock's 'suicide'.

"Yes, Hannah," he said with resignation, gesturing for her to come fully into the room.

From the way she shot forward, Balasha had obviously given her a helpful nudge. But once in front of Mycroft's desk Hannah stopped fidgeting, her always gloomy expression even more glum than usual.

"There are two matters, sir. First, the mole isn't in our section. Exactly."

Mycroft abruptly gave Hannah the dubious benefit of his full attention. "Then _exactly_ where are they?"

"Working for Dame Edith, trying to establish whether her husband's car accident might have been engineered after all - in light of the eight deaths. She's had Jasper from her security team monitoring our communications. He's been using the darknet. Oaktree was only mentioned in passing as they chatted about the death of the wife of the Cabinet Secretary."

"You're certain he was working on Dame Edith's orders?"

"I'm positive, sir."

"Wonderful." Mycroft glanced at Balasha, who had been Hannah's mentor when she first joined the section - and her staunch supporter throughout. If she said 'I told you so'... She'd have a point. "You'd better sit down and tell me all about it."

"You said there were two matters," said Mycroft twenty minutes later. "More tea?"

"No, thanks, sir," said Hannah, fully relaxed because Mycroft had ensured she would be. "Moran - the name Armon is using on the darknet - has been searching for Moriarty since June 16th and he's getting increasingly desperate to find him. More desperate than you would expect from a hired lackey."

"Lover?"

"More familial," Hannah said, after a moment's consideration.

"Excellent," said Mycroft, with a faint, shark-like smile. "I should like to see everything you've found."

Hannah fished in the pocket of her deplorable jacket and handed over a flash drive.

　

Mycroft looked up when Balasha returned. "You were right about Hannah, I was wrong."

"Yes," she said smugly.

"Don't push your luck," he advised her. "Give her a raise and let's see how she handles more responsibility. I rather think it's time to reel in Mr Moran. Fortunately he seems to have satisfied himself that Sherlock really is dead because he's shown no sign of going after Watson or Mrs Hudson again, and no interest in DI Lestrade - presumably because he's been suspended. But that means we'll need a Judas goat to lure Moran out into the open."

"Under no circumstances are we using you," said Balasha, anticipating him.

"Remind me which of us is going to be having a tricky interview with Dame Edith," Mycroft invited.

"You would have done the same in her shoes."

"I'm not disputing that. What I wouldn't have done is leave a trail of breadcrumbs. Jasper really isn't very..."

"That's why he was put on guard-duty," Balasha reminded him.

"He'll have to go, call him in first thing tomorrow. I'll see him before the Joint Intelligence Committee meeting. But first, I want to know exactly what Jasper discovered - Hannah only investigated his electronic trail. See to it. Oh, and we'll need a replacement for him. Get David to start interviewing.

"Regarding, Moran... As he's lost interest in those closest to Sherlock, it's time to remind him Sherlock has a brother. Make sure we have some innocuous leak to the press, because, presumably, Moran missed the press coverage of the inquest and funeral. Find me somewhere to live, within the price bracket of a medium ranked civil servant. And reschedule my diary for the next few days to ensure I'm easy for Moran to locate. Should I use the underground do you think?"

"Have you ever?"

Mycroft gave her a hard stare.

"Oh, DI Lestrade," she said, then wished she hadn't when the muscles round his eyes flinched.

"You'd best get Moriarty's head out of storage. It might come in handy," said Mycroft, turning his attention back to the Statement of Intent.

"Sir?"

"If Moran truly has feelings for him - "

"Right," she said, not for the first time glad Mycroft was on their side.

oOo

"Ah," said Dame Edith, when she saw Mycroft standing on her front doorstep, looking like a particularly glum undertaker.

"Ah, indeed," he said, in a tone too silky to be mistaken for benign.

"You'd better come in and get it off your chest," she said with resignation.

Mycroft dealt with the complicated security system before following her dumpy figure downstairs into the long, thin basement kitchen, which smelled of something unappetising and had a air of menace due to a superfluity of stainless steel.

"I knew it was a mistake to use Jasper," she said.

Mycroft sank tiredly onto a wheel-backed chair, whose cosy style was at odds with the clinical modernity of the stainless steel kitchen. "Given that he was the only one gullible enough to fall for your mixture of sentiment and bullying, your choice was limited. Damn it, Edith. If you trust me so little, why did you recommend me as your successor?"

"Don't be such a drama queen. You know I trust you - but not with Michael's life. Not completely. I don't trust anyone but myself with that."

"Better me than Jasper!" he pointed out with asperity.

"I know," she conceded with a sigh. "It's taken Michael all this time to get a semblance of his life back after the crash and the thought that I might lose him - " She paused to take a bottle of brandy from a bottom cupboard.

Mycroft got up to retrieve the brandy glasses from a shelf above her head. "I don't know why I wasted my time coming round here. It isn't as if anything I could say would change your mind. Do you have _any_ concept what your disregard for procedure cost us? I believed we had a mole in our section. It compromised everything we did. And I - " Mycroft stopped mid-breath, only now absorbing the truth. All this misery had been for nothing. He'd hurt Gregory, had thrown away the best thing that had ever happened to him, for _nothing_.

Edith Carson glanced up, grimaced and poured him a large measure of brandy, before sliding the glass to where he stood. "Come upstairs and get comfortable. For some reason no one likes my kitchen."

"That's because it contains more stainless steel than an operating theatre," he said, but he followed her out the room and up two flights of stairs, before sinking into a sinfully comfortable wing-back leather chair that wouldn't have looked out of place at the Diogenes Club.

"You don't expect me to apologise, I hope?" The touch of defiance in her voice betrayed her.

Mycroft pulled a face and continued to warm the brandy, as he inhaled its aroma. "I never pursue a lot cause. Though I don't know what you were thinking."

"We both know I wasn't, not clearly. There's no need to rub it in. What will happen to Jasper?"

"As I can't trust him, he's no use to us. He's out," said Mycroft without expression.

" _Mycroft_."

"You must have known what I would do. What you would do in my place. You're welcome to find him a job - but not on your security team, or my section. And MI5 have too many idiots as it is."

"He'll probably end up being better paid than any of us."

"The rewards of incompetence." The glass cupped in one hand, his head against the buttery soft leather, Mycroft looked half-asleep.

"I hope you're not going to claim you wouldn't have done what I did - and more - to protect your handsome DI," she said into the silence.

His guard down, Mycroft flinched before he thought to guard his expression.

"Oh, Lord. Tell me you weren't stupid enough to send him away?" she begged, before making a sound of exasperation when she gained no reply. "Oh, really, Mycroft. For such an intelligent man you're an emotional - "

"That is none of your business," he said, but without much expectation that she would take any notice.

She eyed him shrewdly. "You never did grow out of those noble impulses."

"I'm not here to discuss my private life," he said, accepting her interference because he'd reached the stage of desperation where he was almost ready to consider emotional advice from Sherlock.

"If that was intended for a snub, you're losing your touch. Do you want him back?"

"Of course I - ! Yes."

"That's something, I suppose. Although he might take more convincing. Genial he might be, weak he isn't. Mycroft, how could you be so foolish? Do you imagine I've ever put my work before Michael?"

He looked at her in unconcealed surprise. "Of course."

She groaned, and took a reviving mouthful of brandy. "How you manage to walk and breathe at the same time is a mystery. I'm not suggesting you discuss every detail with him but - If you wanted to keep him safe, you should never have started the relationship in the first place. Did your DI fail to grasp that?"

"Stop calling him my DI. His name is Gregory. And of course he understood. He understood all too clearly, and his only concern was for my safety. I was the one - I thought we had a mole. Amongst those who guarded him."

"Which is my fault," Edith said.

"Well obviously. How does that help?"

"When did you last have a proper meal?"

Mycroft blinked. Her occasional spasms of solicitude for those she worked with had never before been aimed at him and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

"That's what I thought. Let's go back downstairs to the brandy and I'll cook you something while you tell me - "

"My relationship with Gregory isn't up for discussion," said Mycroft, but he followed her.

"Then you'd best start briefing me on the current situation. Unless I've misread the signals, you're likely to be jetting off for some tedious - and dangerous - negotiations in the next few days and, good as Balasha is, she isn't quite ready to work solo yet. So be careful," Edith added tartly.

Because experience had taught Mycroft that her instincts were rarely wrong, he briefed her in depth, discovering in the process that she was a terrible cook.

　

Battling incipient indigestion as he walked home, his resigned security trailing behind him, Mycroft's mood underwent a huge improvement when it belatedly occurred to him that with no mole and Moran in their sights, he would soon be able to see Gregory. To explain.

oOo

Mycroft was whistling as he followed Balasha up to the flat she had selected for his use. The place was hideous, but it had excellent security and would put the public at minimal risk.

"Are all the cameras in place?" he asked.

"As of an hour ago, sir."

"Excellent. I'll move some things over here tonight." He reached for his phone as it began to vibrate. As he listened to the caller, his umbrella, previously tilted at a jaunty angle over one shoulder, began to droop.

By the time he tucked the phone back into his pocket, he'd lost all desire to whistle.

"Moran killed himself when cornered by our people," he said, his irritation poorly hidden. "Which means we're unlikely ever to discover exactly what... I want his DNA checked ASAP. Still, it's not all bad. At least I won't have to live in this hell-hole."

In the car on the way back to Guardian House he rang Sherlock, to tell him he could come home.

oOo

Almost vibrating with nerves in case something unforeseen should go wrong at the last moment, Mycroft arrived at RAF Northolt forty minutes before his brother's plane was due to land. He'd missed Sherlock more than he had anticipated; in the last few years they'd been getting on reasonably well, but it wouldn't do to take that for granted...

A lonely figure on the tarmac, he watched the approach, landing, and slow taxiing to a halt of the executive jet. As if impervious to the heat which was making the air shimmer, he waited the interminable time it took to open the door and set the steps in place.

Sherlock emerged in the doorway, blinking in the sun, before he made his way down onto the runway; he looked pale and uncharacteristically uncertain, as if doubting he could be welcome.

Mycroft moved forward, his stride increasing until he was running, as ungainly as an expensively-suited stork. He came to a halt a few feet from Sherlock, who cleared his throat.

"Where's your umbrella?"

Breathless, Mycroft gestured to the sun blazing down on them.

"Right. I never expected to miss your umbrella."

"Or I my brother. Welcome home."

"John?"

Mycroft's face relaxed into a faint smile. "Is ever your man. Could you doubt it?"

"Does he know? That I'm alive? That it's over? That I'm back?" While he hadn't moved, Sherlock gave the impression of straining at an invisible leash.

"No one knows."

"Not even Lestrade?"

"Not even Detective Inspector Lestrade," confirmed Mycroft, colour pressed from his voice.

"Do you call him that while the pair of you are - Oh, of course, you're not." Sherlock shuffled in his feet.

"It was necessary to keep him safe until we identified the mole and caught Moran. While Moran was still at large everyone's life was at risk."

"Will Lestrade understand that?"

Mycroft studied the trace of dust on his polished shoes. "You don't need to concern yourself about that." His expression was as bleak as his voice.

"I'm sorry," said Sherlock unexpectedly.

Mycroft's head shot up. "Let's be quite clear, you have nothing, _nothing_ for which you need to apologise. Had I managed events better you would never have been put in the position of having to jump."

Sherlock took an impulsive step forward and gripped Mycroft's forearm. "I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention. At no point has it ever occurred to me to blame you. We both underestimated Moriarty - or rather, we failed to recognise he was barking mad. We don't make errors of that magnitude often but even we can be wrong on occasion."

"You think I need reminding?" said Mycroft dully.

"Why shouldn't you? I did. This moping has got to stop," added Sherlock with ferocity, having recognised what was so different about Mycroft. He had lost his protective shell, and now there was nothing between him and the world but his skin. And a vulnerable Mycroft contradicted everything he knew. Still, there was no point molly-coddling him. "If I can get over it, so can you. And what's so amusing? I'm trying to help."

Mycroft eyed him with poorly disguised affection. "You're not very good at it." Without warning he took Sherlock in a fierce hug.

"Mycroft? _Mycroft_....? Wide-eyed with panic, Sherlock slowly relaxed into that bruising grip. In an unpractised kind of way he tentatively wrapped his arms around his brother and tentatively patted him on the back.

"It's all right," he said awkwardly, trying to adapt to the untested position of comforter. "I'm home. It's over."

A few moments later Mycroft tensed, then released Sherlock; as they drew apart they avoided one another's eyes, as was only proper for two emotionally constipated Englishmen. Inevitably they were stiff with one another as they walked across the tarmac to Mycroft's Range Rover, uncertain how to tuck back into decent concealment all those inconvenient emotions.

"You're driving?" said Sherlock.

"Obviously."

The air-conditioning provided some relief from the heat. Sherlock watched the traffic flick past.

"You're using diplomatic plates?"

"Of course."

"Where's your security?"

"The motorcyclist, in front of us and the Audi two cars back."

Sherlock liberated a cigarette from the packet in Mycroft's jacket. After a considering look, he lit a second and passed it to his brother.

"Can I see John today?"

Some of the tension on Mycroft's face eased. "He's being brought to Guardian House as we speak. He won't like it, but it's the only way of getting him in my vicinity."

"You two don't get on?"

"I don't recall that we ever did? Besides, John's a man in mourning. And, as we intended, he blames me for your 'death'."

"I want my life back," Sherlock said into the silence.

"I know." Mycroft's gaze never left the road.

"You don't think that's possible?"

"There may need to be a period of adjustment. Your 'death' was a grievous wound from which I feared John might not recover."

Sherlock gave an audible swallow and stubbed out his cigarette. "You don't think he'll want to see me?"

"Don't be a fool. But you'll need to be patient. I can only imagine what these last few months have been like for him. Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, too. No one has escaped damage."

"Including you. You should stop dieting. I'm supposed to be the one with the cheekbones. Mrs Hudson?"

"Will cry over you, smack you, then bake you a cake."

"And Lestrade? Will he work with me again?"

"He's been suspended since you jumped."

Sherlock swung round on his seat. "And you did nothing?"

Mycroft avoided his brother's gaze. "No."

"In God's name why?"

"To protect him. It wasn't until yesterday that I identified the mole - and learnt Moran had killed himself."

"Lestrade wouldn't leave just to save his own skin."

"No, which is why - Never mind. Now you're back, my first priority must be to re-establish your reputation with the authorities. It won't be difficult but it may take a week or so to get the wheels of officialdom moving. As you'll be with John at Guardian House..."

Mycroft began a monotonous recitation of the arrangements which had been made to ensure they would be comfortable there and glanced at the passenger seat a short time later. To his relief, Sherlock was asleep. He would need to be well rested for his reunion with John, which was likely to be stormy.

The closer they came to central London, the worse the traffic became. The darkened windows protected Sherlock from view and Mycroft was content to let him sleep while he could.

He woke Sherlock when they were parked outside Guardian House. It took almost twenty five seconds, which was an indication of Sherlock's exhaustion.

They all were. Grief, loss and stress depleted energy levels at the best of time and these last few months had been -

Unspeakable.

"John's inside. Under guard, or he wouldn't have stayed."

Sherlock nodded, little of his attention on what Mycroft was saying. Despite the heat, fine tremors rippled through him. "Will you let me go in first?"

"That wouldn't be wise. John is likely to be extremely angry at being brought here."

"Oh, God, you didn't kidnap him again?"

"Not exactly," prevaricated Mycroft.

Within seconds of entering the house, Mycroft dismissed his security. As the front door closed behind them, John Watson appeared in the door of the library, then into the large hallway.

"You fucking..." His voice trailed away when he saw who stood in the shadows beyond Mycroft.

Unblinking, all expression drained from Watson's face.

Sherlock darted past Mycroft, murmuring so fast he was barely comprehensible. "Yes, it really is me. I had to jump to save your life. There were snipers. It all went far better than I could have hoped. Though I thought it would, my plans were impeccable and - "

" _Shut up_! Just...shut up," said Watson more temperately. But he punctuated each word with a prod to Sherlock's shoulder, hard enough to make him retreat across the hall, until the back of his legs hit a highly carved Jacobean chair. Sherlock slumped onto it, still staring up at Watson, his heart in his eyes.

"I know it must have been hard. If you'll just let me - "

"I think you've said more than enough." Watson fell silent and tilted his head, studying the man seated in front of him; his eyes were hard and blank, and abruptly Mycroft had a sense of danger - something about to go badly out of control. This was the man who had shot the taxi driver, giggling like a schoolboy with Sherlock afterwards.

John's gun. Fuck. He had no idea if Watson was armed.

Sherlock seemed oblivious to the warning signs. "John, it's over. I'm home. And it isn't as if I was actually dead."

Mycroft was already hurrying to where the two men were, trapped in the corner of the hall, under the curve of the staircase.

At that stunning display of tact, Watson made an animal sound of frustrated rage;, his hand shooting out for a weapon, he snatched the first thing to hand, an umbrella from the hatstand beside him, and lashed out with it.

"No!" cried Mycroft, as he saw what Watson held. He lunged forward in front of Sherlock just as Watson inadvertently released the swordstick, skewering Mycroft to the back of the chair, through suit jacket, shirt and flesh.

Mycroft made an involuntary sound of pain.

"John, don't!" cried Sherlock, unable to move without risking further impaling his brother. "It's me you want to punish, not Mycroft!"

The silence which fell seemed shockingly loud, broken only by Mycroft's uneven breathing. Bowed over Sherlock, he couldn't move, unless he wanted to risk pushing the blade further into his side.

Sherlock saw the blood seeping through the pale pink shirt and froze, the walls of his mind palace melting away to reveal a similar scene. Only then Mycroft had been fifteen, and unlike John, Daddy had kept hitting him, over and over again until Len had rushed in and hauled Daddy away. He'd never seen him again. Mycroft had been ill for days. And he'd deleted all of it, blaming Mycroft for driving Daddy away. Soon after that they had moved to Cambridge, and Mycroft had taken care of everything.

Watson blinked, retaining his grasp of the swordstick because he was afraid what would happen if he released it.

"Mycroft, how badly are you hurt?" he asked, with the calm learnt on the battlefield.

"It's a shallow cut, no more. But I can't move, because the blade is pinning me through my clothes."

"Sherlock, stop wriggling," commanded Watson. He allowed himself the luxury of touching Sherlock, his fingers tightening their grasp when he felt human warmth. Cramping, his fingers tightened even more, proving it wasn't another dream, that this time it was real, Sherlock was live.

Just for once the buggering twat had done as he'd been asked and lived.

"I'm going to get my medical bag. Neither of you should try to move. Clear, Sherlock?"

"I won't," he said, but his fingers curled around Watson's for a moment.

"I have to get my bag," Watson said.

Sherlock nodded, and watched him head up the first flight of stairs, taking them two at a time. Only then did he stare up at the man bent at an awkward angle over him.

"I deleted what happened. I blamed you when Daddy left, while you'd been protecting me from him all my life. You should have told me," Sherlock whispered fiercely, taking Mycroft's cold hand in his own warm one. His over-bearing, interfering, know-it-all big brother, who had spent his entire life trying to protect him.

"That was one memory you didn't need," said Mycroft, tensing as Watson reappeared in his line of vision, watching him as a man might watch an unexploded bomb.

"Are you armed, John?" he asked calmly, as Watson began to use a scalpel to shred one of his favourite suits, in order to free him.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Watson flatly. "Try not to move. Sherlock, steady him while I cut away the last of this." Despite himself, his hand brushed Sherlock's neck, slipping down until his index and middle fingers rested over the pulse point, counting the beats.

The muscles of his back beginning to cramp in his twisted position, Mycroft swallowed an acid comment. All in all, things had gone better than he had expected.

Watson belatedly returned his attention to his patient. "I always wondered if it was just an umbrella that you carried," he said, now taking Mycroft's pulse.

Mycroft gave a pained huff of amusement, as he was finally able to straighten, one hand in the small of his aching back. "It is. This was a present."

"Did I hurt you?"

"I rather thought that was the point," said Mycroft dryly. He gave his shredded jacket and shirt a pained glance.

Watson's shoulders straightened. "Yes," he said, scorning a meaningless apology.

"It was meant for me, not you," said Sherlock. "You can't charge him with - "

"Of course I won't," said Mycroft with a degree of asperity. "I need to shower and change. John, I have no doubt that you and Sherlock will have much to discuss. Please _do not_ leave this house until I give the all-clear. Sherlock, before you do anything else you must call Annie and Len, then Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. They deserve to hear the truth from you." He realised instantly that he'd been careless in his choice of words.

"The truth would be a novelty," said Watson. "You bastards," he added, still without heat, anger simmering just beneath his surface calm. "The pair of you are as bad as one another. Do you have _any_ idea what watching you jump - watching you _die_ \- did to me?"

"John..." In an instant Sherlock was back at his side, murmuring, coaxing.

Wary of trusting John with him yet, Mycroft propped himself against the wall, trying to reduce the drag on his side, which was smarting fiercely.

Abject, pride abandoned, Sherlock's expression was one of naked longing as he continued to murmur to Watson.

Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose. He would do that, and more, if he thought there was even the slightest chance Gregory would listen to him.

A moment later the truth sank home. He could go and tell Gregory the truth right now. Could see him again. Try to explain. Perhaps even win his forgiveness, but at least he could finally tell him the truth.

Watson was still staring into the middle distance, Sherlock pressed against his side, pleading with him in a voice too low to carry behind the man pretending not to listen. For all John's attempts to control his expression, it was nakedly revealing when he allowed himself to look at Sherlock again, as if finally daring to believe he was alive.

Mycroft felt like a voyeur, and jealous, God help him, because Gregory's absence threaded every aspect of his life, but never more so than this moment.

The long shallow cut along his side pulling as the blood dried, Mycroft wondered if he dared trust Sherlock to John while he went to shower and change.

Inevitably, his phone chose that moment to start to vibrate.

　

Showered, changed and packed in record time, having stuck a wodge of plasters over the cut, which insisted on bleeding, Mycroft hurried back downstairs, to find Sherlock and John as he had left them.

"Sherlock, I have to leave. I'll be out of the country for at least a week. I need your word that you and John will remain here, out of the public eye, until I've received confirmation that you won't face arrest."

"Of course, go," said Sherlock absently, never taking his eyes from Watson's face.

"I should see to your side," Watson remembered without enthusiasm.

"It's fine," dismissed Mycroft. "Before I leave, I need your assurance that you won't..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

Watson gave his first, faint smile since the day Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart's Hospital. "Given how many times I begged Sherlock not to be dead, it wouldn't make much sense for me to kill him. Though I can't deny a part of me wants to," he added cheerfully, his hand back around Sherlock's wrist, his thumb describing circles on the back of Sherlock's hand.

Mycroft nodded, but he still looked worried. "If you need a punchbag, you know he'd just stand there."

"Like you did, to protect him, you mean?"

Mycroft blinked. "You heard?"

"Yeah."

"Daddy was a drunk. An abusive drunk," said Sherlock. "And Mycroft protected me from him. John, will you stay here with me?"

All the muscles of Watson's face seemed to relax at the same time, real warmth in his smile. "You daft bugger, where else would I be?"

Mycroft's security detail chose that moment to arrive to drive him to the heliport. He paused at the front door, studying Watson, who looked better than he had an hour ago.

"It'll be fine," Watson told him. "We'll be fine."

"Stay here, hidden. Talk to Gregory and Mrs Hudson," Mycroft said again.

"We will. Don't forget to have that side looked at."

"It was necessary," Mycroft said, ignoring that.

Watson's expression hardened. "That's it, is it?" he said with a dangerous quiet.

"What possible good would be apology from me be?" said Mycroft wearily, careful not to glance at his watch.

Watson unclenched his fist, exhaling. "You enjoy living dangerously."

The blue eyes so unlike Sherlock's held his own without any difficulty. "There has been nothing to enjoy for longer than I care to think about."

"Sir, we really should go," said David, who had got out of the car.

Mycroft gave Sherlock and Watson a final, worried glance before he left the house.

oOo

The sound of the engines seemed loud in the military transport. Mycroft refocused to find Paul and Martin watching him with what they fondly imagined to be poker faces: David's death had shaken them all.

"Go and get some sleep," he told them irritably. "I've had a dislocated shoulder reduced, not life threatening surgery. Have you prepared your accident reports?"

"Not yet," said Paul.

"Then go and do that. Viewing time is over."

"You'll call if you need anything?"

Mycroft found a smile from somewhere. "Go away. If I want drinkable tea, I know better than to ask you two."

Now the local had worn off, his splinted fingers were making themselves felt, but at least there was every likelihood that the torn tendons would heal, giving him full mobility in his hand again. His shoulder ached, but that was only to be expected.

He studied the sling holding his arm in place. He'd got off lightly.

Of all the senseless ways for David to die, twisting round from the front seat of the Land Rover to deliver the punch-line to one of his abominable jokes. He had died between one word and the next, as an earth tremor brought about a minor landslip, almost sending them off the mountainous road. It had been a terrifying sixteen minutes, trapped, staring down into a ravine, one hand locked around David, whose door had opened under the impact. Of course, he hadn't known David was already dead at the time.

Mycroft exhaled slowly, trying to regain control of his mind, which insisted on replaying the accident over and over again.

Fortunately the rest of the convoy had escaped harm, and had displayed a stunning efficiency in rescuing them, though how they could imagine he would leave without David's body. The least he could do was see him home.

He looked up as a nurse came through to check on their mysterious - and only - VIP patient but sensing he wasn't welcome, he didn't linger for long. As he sipped the stale-tasting water, it occurred to Mycroft that he would have to postpone his trip to the States.

His first priority must be to see Alice, who didn't yet know she was a widow. After they landed at RAF Brize Norton he would escort David's body to the mortuary at the John Radcliffe Hospital, the destination of all dead military personnel returning home. Once he'd dealt with the formalities a helicopter would fly him to Chislehurst, where a car would take him to Alice and David's house.

His thoughts still skittering about in an unreliable fashion, Mycroft mentally completed his report, while conceding that he would feel more sanguine about the efficiency of the arrangements if Balasha had made them. But she was in Europe, holding the Foreign Secretary's hand - although not literally, fortunately this one wasn't as randy as his predecessor.

The flight landed fifteen minutes late. Mycroft left the plane more slowly than he had intended, his bruised body stiff and uncooperative. After David's body had been carried from the plane, with full military honours, he turned in time to see Balasha being driven onto the tarmac.

"Sir," she said, her gaze strip-mining his face for information. "Just to confirm we'll be at the John Radcliffe in forty minutes. The head of Pathology is expecting us. The formalities should take no more than fifteen minutes. A helicopter will be waiting five minutes away to take us to Chislehurst. Might I suggest that while at the hospital you take the opportunity to change. There's blood on your suit."

Mycroft glanced down with a frown. "But David didn't - Oh, it must be mine," he realised without interest.

"Your luggage is being moved into the car now," she anticipated, worried both by his lack of colour, and the way he was standing. He was clearly in pain, but there was no point asking.

He nodded. "I'm glad to see you. How did you make it back so fast?"

"I hitched a lift. The Germans were most helpful in facilitating that."

"Thank you," he said simply.

　

Before the car turned into the road where David had lived so happily, Mycroft had removed his sling and splints.

"Sir," protested Balasha.

"I'm not about to parade my minor hurts to David's widow."

She had the sense not to pursue the point.

Forty five minutes later Mycroft emerged from the terraced house on the Georgian crescent that overlooked Chislehurst Common with smears of mascara on his shirt, and the expression of a man who had just spent one of the most difficult hours of his life.

Balasha waited until the car was heading back to the helicopter before handing him some tea. "When did you last eat?"

He grimaced. "I'm not hungry. But this is very welcome."

"Jane will remain with Alice until her parents arrive."

"Good. We might just make the JIC Meeting after all."

"You should cancel."

"I'd rather keep busy," he said, for once telling the unguarded truth.

　

The car was driving from the heliport to Downing Street when Balasha said "Sir!" with the note in her voice which always commanded Mycroft's unquestioning attention. She passed him her tablet.

The early evening news broadcast showed Lestrade, cornered in an unfamiliar doorway, surrounded by the press, who were demanding to know his reaction to the breaking news that Sherlock Holmes was alive.

More a rictus than a smile, Lestrade's eyes were suddenly too bright and for a few seconds he was in danger of breaking down in front of the people who had tormented him at press conferences since he had begun to work with Sherlock. Moments later joy turned to devastation as he absorbed the cruelty of the trick which had been played on him.

Mycroft swallowed hard.

Balasha took one look at Mycroft's expression before she busied herself with her Blackberry, offering him the illusion of privacy.

"Postpone the JICM. Take me to Gregory," he commanded.

He closed his eyes. To most people he would have appeared to be asleep. Balasha, who knew better, watched him wince every time the car hit a pot-hole.

"Sir, you should see a doctor," she said, when she could stand it no longer.

"No," he said with finality.

"Then after you've seen DI Lestrade."

"Fine," he said, his agreement worrying her even more.

　

Much to his relief, Lestrade managed to give those of the press who continued to hang around the front door of his flat the slip. With nowhere else to go, he returned to the house they were renovating. They were on the final straight now; it shouldn't take more than a couple of days at most. As soon as it was finished he would leave London. There was nothing left to stay for now.

He arrived at the house, relieved to realise no one still there would have seen the TV bulletin.

It was only when he started to apply paint to the roller that Lestrade appreciated just how angry he was, his hands shaking.

All he could see was Mycroft kneeling in front of him on the steps at Barts hospital, telling him it wasn't his fault.

The fucking bastard...

He shut his eyes and fought to control his breathing, and with it his rage at the extent of Mycroft's lies.

And not just to him, but to John, Mrs Hudson, probably Len and Annie too. Proof, had he needed more, that it didn't pay to love a Holmes.

　

"We'll be there in a couple of minutes," said Balasha into the silence.

Mycroft immediately opened his eyes. "Where are we?"

"A halfway house for the homeless. DI Lestrade has been helping to renovate it. He must have given the press the slip and come back here from his flat."

Mycroft fidgeted with the knot of his tie, then his jacket, his injured hand, still without splints or sling, tucked from sight. He glanced at Balasha, then obviously thought the better of what he had been about to say.

"You look fine," she said encouragingly.

He gave a sardonic huff. "I doubt if my appearance is going to matter, one way or the other. Keep security back, this meeting is going to be difficult enough as it is."

He left the car, straightened with caution and picked his way across the rubble-strewn frontage and in through the open front door of the house, which was obviously nearing completion, judging from the smell of paint. He had only gone a few steps down the hall when he was accosted by a pimply youth.

"I'm looking for Gregory Lestrade," Mycroft said. "I'm an old friend of his."

"Yeah? You'd best come this way then. Watch yourself, the doorframes are still drying." He led Mycroft down the long hallway, to a rectangular room at the rear, which was half painted a pale primrose.

Mycroft stopped dead, his attention on the familiar figure with his back to him, perched on top of a step-ladder. Lestrade was wearing the paint-splattered jeans he hadn't seen since February 5th 2008, when he had visited him at his unfurnished flat to persuade him to work with Sherlock. Gregory had lost nine pounds, and cropped his hair. There was new muscle at his biceps, his waist trim; the weight loss was probably the result of hard physical labour rather than the gym.

"Greg!" the youth bellowed, as if Lestrade was forty yards away, instead of four. "Bloke here claims he's a friend. If he ain't I'll kick him out."

Lestrade turned, ridiculously sure-footed for a man standing at the top of a rickety step-ladder.

As Mycroft watched, the bearded face froze. The beard was new. As was the inimical expression in Gregory's eyes.

"Thanks, Tim. Would you close the door? Cheers." The paint roller drooping from one hand, the paint tray in the other, Lestrade stared down until the door had closed behind Tim with a quiet click. He stayed still as stone, fearing that if he moved he would shatter - or worse, that he would crush Mycroft with the force of the rage building in him as the enormity of the lies Mycroft had told him sank home with renewed force.

"Well, well. The face is vaguely familiar," said Lestrade, in a tight, unfamiliar voice. "Some would say better late than never, though I'm not one of them."

Mycroft froze, only then appreciating that he hadn't lost hope until this moment. And shamingly, that he had come here less for Gregory's comfort than for his own.

"I saw the news just after I landed and came to apologise," he said, sounding as stiff and prim as if they had never been lovers. "You were never supposed to learn the truth in that fashion."

"Yeah? Should I be grateful? However you try to spin it, you knew I blamed myself for Sherlock's suicide and you still let me believe he was dead. Go away. We're done," said Lestrade tiredly, anger falling away.

"You're right, of course. This is far too little, far too late. I deeply regret the pain you've been caused."

"Oh, well, that's all right then. Just go. I'm beyond caring. I gave you six months."

Mycroft blinked. "I'm sorry. Six months?"

With enviable balance, Lestrade walked down three steps to perch on the top step, tucking the paint tray on the step under his legs. "I knew you'd lied about having a lover - well, I did after the most miserable week of my life. But I thought you must have a plan, so I stayed away in case I mucked it up, and I trusted you and I waited. And waited. Then Sherlock jumped - " For a moment Lestrade's voice cracked. "And you knew, you _knew_ , that I blamed myself, and still you kept quiet. No one who claimed to love me would have done that. No one."

His face tightening, Mycroft's head went back as if he had just received a savage blow and didn't know how to conceal the shock of it. He leant inconspicuously against the support of the wall, staring at Lestrade as a man might stare at his executioner. Only now did Mycroft finally appreciated what Edith Carson had tried to tell him.

Gregory was right. No one who loved him as he deserved would have put him through the last six months. No one but Mycroft Holmes...

"Was there anything else?" asked Lestrade, when the silence had gone on for too long. "No? Splendid. Then you'll have to excuse me. I have my public humiliation to celebrate and worth in the eyes of supposed friends to absorb. You can see yourself out." He didn't recognise the sound of his own voice; dark and grating, the twin forces of rage and need pulsed beneath his skin like a drum. All ostensible calm, he turned back to the wall he had been painting.

Still absorbing the magnitude of the hurt he had inflicted, Mycroft opened his mouth but could think of nothing to say that would excuse what he had knowingly done. His pale face set, his eyes were bleak, the area surrounding them drawn with fatigue and pain; while he stood straight, as always, he had the look of a wax candle about to melt to the point of total collapse. He allowed himself one last look at the man who had just dismissed him from his life, before he left the room.

It had been some hours since Mycroft had taken any medication and the pain was growing by the minute, wave upon wave of it, dragging at him like the pull of the tide over shingle. He resisted the urge to pull open his tie.  It seemed uncommonly warm. Light-headed from lack of food and sleep during the last twenty four hours, and haunted by the expression on Gregory's face, Mycroft headed out the house, oblivious to the paint smeared on his jacket from when he had bumped into the door frame. He headed blindly for the car, a singing in his ears, stumbling over rubble until he tripped at the curbside and in through the open door of the car.

He felt himself falling without being able to do a thing to stop it, there was an agonising pain, then Balasha's voice fading into the darkness.

　

Open curiosity on his face, Tim came back into the room, his excuse that of bringing Lestrade a plastic beaker of tea.

"Here, watch out, you dozy git, you're dripping paint all over yourself," he exclaimed.

Misery dragging at him, Lestrade refocused, swore without heat and began to clear up the mess he had made.

"Everything all right?" asked Tim with some delicacy, because if life on the streets taught you anything, it was that people valued their privacy most when that was all they had left.

"What? Yeah, fine," lied Lestrade, as he tried to accept that he would never see Mycroft again. "Just fine."

 

　

　

　

To be followed by part 15, _Meet on the Ledge_


End file.
